Under the Covers (36 page)

Not even Angelica.

But a FedEx envelope sat propped on his stoop. He gathered it and hurried inside, dropped his garment bag, and tore it open. His heart thundered in his chest as he read the notice. Apparently Shelly had seen the TV interview in New York when the audience had overheard them panting and heaving in the curtained area.
Dear God. No.

His ex-wife was suing him for full custody of Lizzie.

Chapter 24

Multiple Orgasms

Abby had never had as many orgasms as she'd had with Harry.

Which made it even harder to be alone.

The doorbell rang and Chelsea bounded in, Abby's heart lurching when Butterball wiggled and squirmed to get to her. "Hey, buddy. Did you like staying with Aunt Chelsea?" She scooped him into her arms, laughing at the colorful bow Chelsea had clipped to his hair.

"He looks like a girl," Abby said.

"You don't think it'll confuse him sexually, do you?"

Abby laughed. "I doubt it." Then she noticed Chelsea's black eye and her smile faded. "What happened to you?"

Chelsea hesitated, touching her puffy eye. "Oh, a little accident with another actress. We were practicing a pretend fight for this scene, but the girl missed the air and hit me by mistake."

"Oh." Abby peered at her sister. Something about the story sounded odd, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

Chelsea dropped the pizza on the counter and popped open a soda. "I saw the interviews with you and Harry. Pretty hot stuff."

"He's a good actor," Abby said, afraid her feelings about the man would show through.

Chelsea laughed. "That behind-the-scenes sex was not acting, sis, and there's no way you'll convince me it was."

Abby snuggled her face into Butterball, trying to hide her blush.

"All right, tell all, sis." Chelsea rubbed her hands together excitedly. "And this had better be good. I dumped my baggage of a boyfriend last week and the gay bars just don't cut it for me, so right now I'm living vicariously through you."

Chelsea had gone through another boyfriend? Had a black eye. Had been cavorting in gay bars.

What in the heck was happening to her? She'd been so wrapped up in herself, she didn't even know what was going on with her sister.

* * *

Misery
was too tame a word to describe Hunter's feelings. He tried all night to get in touch with Shelly and Lizzie, but no one was home. Finally the housekeeper answered the phone Saturday morning and informed him the Jeffries's had gone out of town until Tuesday.

Lizzie was
not
a Jeffries. And she never would be.

His chest ached from worry, his head hurt from exhaustion, and his eyes throbbed from trying to hold back tears. He had to change Shelly's mind. He'd spoken with a lawyer and she'd agreed to set up a meeting with a mediator, but nothing could be done until Shelly returned.

It was ironic that the very story he'd thought might help him climb the ladder at the paper and give him more time with his daughter might now cost him her company forever.

Meanwhile, what was he going to do about the article? His boss had left a message that he expected the story in the next week, but Hunter couldn't think straight. The words that flowed through his mind were not for the public.

They were for Abby, private thoughts about his feelings for her....

Words he might make public someday, but not in the newspaper.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. He wanted her again. And again and again. But not just in his bed—in his life. Forever. With him and Lizzie.

Frustrated and lonely and so damn worried he felt as though he might have a nervous breakdown, he fed Snarts, then grabbed his sunglasses, climbed on his Harley, and took off. Maybe a ride in the mountains would clear his head, help him focus on the slant for his article—or some idea that would save his position at the paper and his relationship with Abby.
Yeah, right.
Like Chicken Little, the answers to all his problems would probably fall out of the sky and hit him in the helmet.

* * *

Abby had tried to pry information from Chelsea about her gay-bar comment before she'd left, but Chelsea had flitted from one topic to another and had never quite answered her, except to say she'd had an adventure. Abby had a sneaking suspicion Chelsea might have gone looking for Lenny and that she had even talked Victoria into going with her. When she'd pushed for details, Chelsea had sidetracked her with questions about Harry. As if she didn't have enough of her own.

All night she'd tried to make some sense out of her feelings for him. She'd hoped distance would make him look duller, less desirable. Instead she ached for his hands and his lips and his body.

Irritated with herself and the mess she'd gotten herself into with this publicity stunt, she almost bumped into Victoria outside the bank. Her sister had promised to meet her for moral support. Chelsea had wanted to come, too, but an audition as a broccoli pod superseded.

Victoria clutched a double latte in her hands, her black business outfit professional, but she'd forgone her usual chignon to let her hair lie loose around her shoulders.
Hmm, maybe this guy Suarez is the reason.

She, on the other hand, had been so depressed she'd dressed in baggy jeans and a denim shirt, dreading the morning's trip to the bank.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Victoria asked. "We could have Lenny charged with blackmail."

"And leave those photos floating around out there?" Abby shuddered. "No way. I'll press charges
after
the pictures are back in my hands."

"You don't think he's dangerous, do you?"

Abby gnawed on her stub of a nail. "No, he's too much of a wienie to hurt me. Humiliation and robbery are more his style."

Victoria heaved an angry sigh. "I hope I get my hands on him when we're through."

As they stepped into the bank, Abby's pulse clamored. Her temper boiling, she slid the savings withdrawal slip up to the cashier.

Victoria gave her a sympathetic look. Thank goodness she'd tagged along for moral support.

"You want to withdraw ten thousand dollars?" the teller asked.

Abby nodded. Why didn't the lady just shout it out?

"I need to see some ID, please. And you'll have to fill out these forms." She shoved some papers toward Abby.

Abby winced, opened her purse, and pulled out her driver's license.

The elderly woman smacked a wad of gum as she plucked the license from Abby's fingers. Her beehive hairdo barely wavered as she angled her head and studied Abby, trying to decide if Abby's face matched the photo.

"I'm having a bad-hair day," Abby said, willing her to hurry.

"I'll say." Her eyes suddenly widened. "You that Dr. Jensen on the TV?"

Abby nodded tightly. Victoria moved closer to try to shield her from curious onlookers.

"You look better on TV." The woman handed her back the picture, then began to fill out the forms.

When she finished, Abby slipped the money into her tote bag, old bank-robbery movies replaying in her mind. Huddling together like two spies in a cheap thriller, the two of them slunk away, trying not to look conspicuous as Abby clutched the bag to her side in a death grip.

"Don't look now, but I think we're being followed," Victoria whispered.

Abby's heart pounded. Good grief, she was going to be robbed. Then she couldn't pay Lenny.

Victoria caught her elbow, sandwiching her closer as they slowly moved toward the door. Abby caught the reflection of a skinny guy in the glass, wearing a yellow-and-green-plaid coat and bowling shoes.

He wasn't a bank robber.

It was Mo Jo Brown, that perverted panty-thief who'd followed her once before and nearly scared the be-jesus out of her.

Where was her hero Harry when she needed him?

* * *

The mountain breeze blew the scents of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle toward Hunter, the wind a welcome distraction from the stifling heat.

But even the scenery and beautiful weather couldn't brighten his mood.

His phobia of heights kicked in, and he steered the bike as far from the ledge as possible, avoiding looking at the vast expanse of canyon below. The last time he'd ridden up here, he'd been planning the article, planning to use Abby to further his career. He'd been thinking about the one girl in the world who meant something to him: Lizzie.

Now Abby meant something to him, too. But he might lose them both.

The Velvet Cloak Inn peeked through the sea of greenery, and he decided to stop in and see if the owner had opened the place back up. He still had dozens of couples to interview for more articles. Maybe he could talk his boss into dropping the piece on Abby and focusing on the Milano victims. A long shot, but it might work—after all, the publicity on Abby should die down soon.

Steering onto the graveled road that led to the facility, he coached the bike uphill, then parked on the leveled-off area in front of the inn. A few other cars sat at various angles, and the sign on the door read
Open.
Tall elms and maples hugged the property. Weeping willows dotted the front, giant azaleas flanking a wide porch filled with rocking chairs for guests to enjoy the magnificent view of the valley.

He removed his helmet and strode up the steps, not surprised to find the same woman he'd spoken with before at the front desk, but this time instead of bawling her eyes out, she smiled brightly. A dozen yellow daisies filled a vase on the oak countertop, the red velvet carpet that covered the steps exemplifying the inviting atmosphere of the place. The lobby had undergone a face-lift, all signs advertising the chapel missing.

"Can I help you, sir? Do you need a room?"

He shook his head. "Edna, it's me, Hunter Stone from the AJC. I spoke with you a while back about the Milano mess."

Her smile wilted. "Oh, yes, I remember you." She leaned over the counter and spoke in a whisper, "We're trying to get past that now. Although I think some people have driven up here out of curiosity. I think your pieces on the victims really helped."

He dug his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. "I have a lot more people to interview. You haven't heard anything more from Milano, have you?"

"No." Her eyes flickered around like a nervous hen's. "But I did find a backup disk with a bunch more names of folks who had been married by Milano." She paused to pick at a cuticle. "Do you know what?"

"What?" He'd learned a long time ago to be patient, that some people told stories in their own good time.

"That sex therapist lady that's been on TV; why, she was one of them."

Hunter felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

He'd known all along that Abby had secrets. That she was lying to him. But he'd never imagined she'd actually been married by Milano.

"And you know what else?"

He swallowed, dread filling him.

"I heard someone say they think her husband, well"—she gave him a conspiratorial wink—"the man she
thought
she married, he was in cahoots with Tony Milano. Won't the shit hit the fan when all that gets out!"

Damn straight it will.
"So Lenny Gulliver was involved with Milano? He might have been a party to Milano's entire scam?"

Edna scrunched her mouth and bobbed her head up and down as if she'd won the big jackpot.

Hunter gripped the wooden counter, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place with an audible click. What if Abby had known about Lenny and his involvement with Milano? Could she possibly have been in on the deal?

She had told a lot of lies. What if she'd been covering up for Lenny? Was that the reason the police had been at her house?

Did they suspect that Abby was an accomplice? Had Lenny returned to reconcile with her and give her her cut—was that what that little meeting backstage had been about?

Or had he come to steal more money from her?

* * *

Sunday afternoon, Abby's breath hitched at the sound of the jangling phone. She'd half hoped—no, she'd wanted—Harry to call all weekend. To tell her they didn't need distance, that he didn't care if she'd lied to him about her husband, that he didn't want to go to LA to be an actor, that he wanted to stay in Atlanta and make a life with her.

Not that she couldn't move to LA, but the Hollywood life didn't appeal to her.

And she had to admit, after her last fiasco of a marriage, her ego couldn't survive the competition of the women who would play opposite Harry. Pathetic, but she realized most actors had to play nude scenes at some point in their careers. Granted, she was liberated and modern, but the idea of women touching and gawking at Harry's body just didn't sit right.

Plus, she wanted a family,—the whole nine yards, as old-fashioned as it might seem. The kids, the mini van, the PTA. The phone rang again and she grabbed it. "Hello?"

"Hey, baby, it's me."

The scoundrel.
Anger replaced every emotion in her body. "What do you want, Lenny?"

"Did you get the money?"